First Date Dos and Don’ts (But mostly Don’ts)

I did it. I went on a date! I gave myself a time frame and I said to myself,”Melody,” I said. “You have two weeks to set up a date.” I said that. And I did it. Would you like to hear the story? Of course you would!

I joined three dating apps. What? You thought this date was like a blind date set up through friends? Oh no? You thought I hit up ‘the nightlife’ and met someone at a bar and gave him my number? So likely. Or maybe someone at my Church Bible Study said, “Hey there, wanna get coffee?” I don’t actually go to a Church Bible Study. Or maybe you thought that new gym I joined had a single fitness coach and as soon as he saw me, dripping in sweat (joking! I don’t sweat…), he knew he had to ask me out.

Yeah, no. It’s 2019. I went online.

I tried Zoosk, Bumble, and Coffee Meets Bagel. I am still hesitant to pay for the upgraded versions or for more intense services like, eharmony, etc. I hear the cool kids are on apps and the old ones are on dating sites. I don’t know exactly where I fall yet. Still hoping for that blind date set up by friends (FRIENDS? Friends?).

Back to my date. I made a profile during the beginning of the Polar Vortex, not knowing I would have five days off work in a row and therefore have plenty of time for swiping and liking and guessing which guy I was chatting with when every single one of his pictures had multiple dudes in them. So many guys do that. I am not physic. I can’t guess which one you are! I started talking to ‘The Analyst” within the first day or two, along with at least four other guys. It was stressful. “Tattoo guy” thought it was hilarious that my only tattoo is my eyeliner (true story, 50 bucks in Korea and I haven’t had to apply eye liner in five years) and then just stopped talking to me after he sent several pictures of his tattoos… all PG pics, I promise. I think he just wanted to show them off? I realized quickly that none of these guys were going to actually ask to meet me in real life. So I asked the Analyst if he would like to get coffee sometime. He told me sure, name a date and a place and do all the work of deciding what we should do/where we should go, and he would be there. I gave him two options for dates and three options for places to meet. Because, everybody loves options.

We decided on a place in his neighborhood. On a Thursday. Because Thursdays are safe. He pushed to move the date earlier than 5 because we would be drinking coffee. We make the date earlier. I myself, prefer chai, but that’s totally besides the point (unless you are reading this and you want to take me on a date, or buy me a chai latte). The day of the date comes and I have my sixth snow day in two weeks. The Polar Vortex strikes again.

I tell the Analyst that we can still meet when he assumes a snow day means a cancelled date. I was not about feeling all of those nerves for a week to have the date delayed for who knows how long. Also, I have a jeep. It has four wheel drive.

I head to the cafe a few hours early to get some “work done”. I thought I could work on my grad classes and read a book and write a blog post. I did not do these things. I mean one of them I did, I nervously read a book and nursed my chai latte… for hours.

I get a message from the Analyst telling me he decided to run to the grocery store after work to get breakfast food because he ran out. O….k….Because no store is opened after six or seven when our coffee date would be over. He ends up getting stuck in traffic and is 20 minutes late. LATE. After he wanted to meet earlier and while knowing I have been in the coffee shop all afternoon. But whatever, I myself am very time-oriented, which is why I was hours early in the first place. I was willing to let it slide though because, you know, traffic.

He comes in and we have the awkward and unavoidable greeting, “Hi… Melody?” and I say hi back. He asks if I want anything. I say I am good with my drink (the cold one I have had for two hours). He persists. Are you sure? Yes, I am sure. But… I have a coupon! And then he pulls out a coupon the size of a travel book. It’s buy one get one half off. Well then I guess I could always go for another chai. Oh… I think it’s just for coffee. He already knew I don’t drink coffee. Then I am good. Are you sure? Yes.

He leaves to order a coffee and comes back with a coffee and a massive muffin. “I was hungry.” He sits down and starts to eat his muffin.

Let’s talk about where he is sitting. During my first 30 minutes in this adorable coffee shop I’d moved seats three times. I wanted to make sure we had a spot in the place conducive for conversation and weren’t crowded by other tables. I ended up at a study table (meaning it’s a good size) for four. I had my backpack and coat on the seat next to me. Instead of sitting across from me, my date sits diagonal. Yes, you read that right. Diagonal. Straight across from my backpack. I look at him. I look at the empty chair across from me. Do I ask him to move over? No, I just met him. Do I move all my things off the seat and slide over to be across from him? No, that’s awkward. I stare at the empty seat across from me for a second. Then I angle my chair and body towards him and ask him what kind of muffin he’s eating.

While he is eating his muffin he starts talking. And talking. And talking. I share here and there when I can. He asks me zero questions and continues bringing it back to him. Well, maybe he asks me one question. I shouldn’t exaggerate. He definitely asked me one question at some point. He tells me about when he got a ticket for running a red light. He went to court to fight the ticket, bringing a stack of research with him. “I like to analyze things.” He says explaining how thick this stack of papers was. He told the judge why he thought he shouldn’t have gotten the ticket. The traffic light was poorly designed. It was unsafe, actually. Etc, etc. The judge looked at him and told him to pay the ticket.

He told me another story about going to parent-teacher conferences with his friend, because she asked him to. They get there and the teacher says to the boy, “You haven’t introduced me to your dad.” The boy bursts into tears and runs from the room. This guy is not his father. I felt so bad for the child and the teacher in this story. I also thought how in ten years of teaching, I’ve never had a parent bring a ‘friend’ to a parent teacher conference. Like. Never. And that’s coming from someone who has worked at seven schools on three different continents. He told me the kid was fine with it by the next year. WAIT. What? You did this more than once? You do this regularly? I do not say these things aloud. I sit and listen.

As we talk we discover we have people in common we know. We have a conversation where I clearly state my sister is married to someone from our area. He then talks about my brother in law. And by talk, I mean he starts to badmouth my bro. His mom thinks this and that. I don’t want to share too much info here because the basis of my date’s mom’s opinion is pretty off. And I want to protect my brother in law. But. He talks bad. About my family. I smile with my teeth and look at him a bit incredulously and say, “Um, haha, yep. That’s my brother-in-law.”

My sister texts me two hours into the date. Yes, you heard that right. Two hours. Two hours I can never get back. I look at my phone for the first time during this very long coffee date to check the time and see her text. Are you still out? I start to hint that I need to head back home with the weather and everything as I am thinking in my head, “Right, and now I am deleting all of my dating apps.”* Then I text her back and say, Trying to say goodbye. She was waiting on my text to make sure I wasn’t meeting up with a crazy person or thrown in the back of a van. Which is important. You never know who you’re going to meet.

My sister is proud of me for going on a date. I am proud of me for going on a date. It could have been worse. It was fine. We left and he was smiling ear to ear saying, “This was fun!” I did not have fun. I smiled at him and said, “Bye!” Also… last thing. Because this is where I am not the nicest person in this scenario. I realized I am more shallow than I thought. Because this guy. He was my size, if not shorter. And I am 5′ 2″. Okay, okay, I am 5′ 1½”. And he was skinnier than me, I mean, I am not skinny by any means, love me some chocolate. But a smaller man than me who insults my family on a first date? Yeah… pass.

By the time I got home he messaged me again asking for a second date, to a boat show, which we had talked about before the first date. I said I was going to pass on the boat show. He said so is that a pass on the boat show and potential hangout/dates or just the boat show? … both, it’s gonna be a pass on both. He was very cordial and told me he hoped I found what I was looking for.

I was very tempted to tell him to analyze our date since he mentioned multiple times how he likes to analyze things. But instead I said if I ever needed anything analyzed I would give him a holler. But that was a lie. I will not do that.

Do: Go on a date!

Don’t: Be late, sit diagonally from your date, insult family members, talk the whole time and ask very few questions of your date.

*I did not delete the dating apps on my phone for another two months. I tried, sincerely did, to connect with someone else and meet in person. Then I tried another app as well, OKcupid, and guess who was on that app with a 91% match to me? Yep. The Analyst. This is when I deleted all of my apps. If he ever stumbles upon this, now he knows. Sorry dude.


“Are you so happy you live here now?” -niece

I was helping my four year old niece wash her feet in the bathroom, after playing outside in the sandpit, when she looked up with a smile and said, “Are you so happy you live here now?” I had been back in Michigan for four days, and it was our fourth day in a row playing with each other. After the first three days my parents house, “Nana and Papa’s house” became “Aunt Melody’s house”. Hashtag WINNING.

I am 33 years old, I have lived overseas for 9 years, and I am back with mom and dad who have a house big enough to sleep 11 people (because it did at one point, it did). My mom and sister had this beautiful idea to redecorate one of the bedrooms for me. Once they had their idea, they set my dad to work. He repainted, buffered and sanded and hung up light fixtures and wall hangings. My mom had a basket of soap and bath salts waiting for me in the bathroom. They’ve had a mostly empty nest since my youngest brother moved out 5 years ago. I am loving every minute of it.

Friends and family are in disbelief. I haven’t lived in Middleville since I went off to college, in 2003. They either look at me and say, “I can’t believe you’re here” or they ask me, “How does it feel to back?”

Which is where I want to rest for a minute. How does it feel? I didn’t know how to accurately describe how it feels, because I normally visit in the summer and stay at my parents and do all of the things I have been the past several weeks. But how does it feel? Being home, being here, knowing I am staying, how does it feel?

It feels right.

Not only easy, not only hard, not only exciting, but really… right.

That being said, there are many emotions constantly rippling along my body, my spirit, my soul like small waves in a pond. One moment anxiety is stabbing at my breath causing me to lie awake at night when I think about finding a job, unable to stop soft quicks sighs. The next moment I am smiling ear to ear as I drive over to my sister’s house and take a tractor ride with a handful of my family members.  I feel sad because I love the city life and friends that are like family and brunch and I miss it. I feel happy because I dream of owning a home and designing it with my mom and dad. I live in moments of pure joy, and fear of the unknown.

The idea that change becomes easy when you’ve experienced a lot of it is hogwash. Last week, I was sitting in my mom’s car about to go into an interview where I had to give a sample lesson to a group of 5 children, with 6 adults watching. I kid you not, as I sat in the parking lot with my hand on the seatbelt, I almost started the car again and drove away. “I don’t want to do this,” I said aloud to my handbag. I have interviewed for more jobs than I have fingers, and probably toes, and every time it’s scary. I took a deep breath. Went into the school. And I did it anyway.

I am grateful for my parents. The support and encouragement they give me allows me to take this next step into a place I have never explored before. I did warn them though if they keep spoiling me that I may never leave. Of course they know I am joking, mostly.

reading with aunt hillary

Goodbye, Grandpa.

My earliest memories of my grandpa are giant bear hugs, his big belly laugh, kisses to my forehead and the smell of cinnamon. He loved cinnamon candy.

He also loved his Buick convertible. I remember sitting in the back of that pretty blue car with both my grandparents in the front, a sibling by my side, and the wind whipping around my face. I have one very specific memory of getting excited when my grandpa turned the Buick around to head back home and I exclaimed, “Oh good! Now we are going the right way!” My grandpa laughed, “The ‘right way’? I didn’t know there was a wrong way!” In my young mind I thought that my hair was whipping around my face because of the direction we were driving. Then, as we turned around and went the other way, I quickly realized there was no ‘right way’ in a convertible, as my hair was still stinging my face and making me look like Medusa. I laughed, and didn’t even try to explain myself as I let my hair be wild. It’s weird, the memories you keep.

I’ve been grateful for my siblings and cousins posts on social media over the past few days as I reminiscence, far from home, about the man who was Jim Habegger. I totally forgot about the gum ball machine he had IN HIS HOUSE, and the coins he always had ready for the grandkids when we came to visit. He was the one who introduced me to homemade ice cream and Skip-bo, and gave me a deep appreciation for country living, though I am only now starting to realize it.

My grandpa could annoy you like crazy and then make you smile all in one sentence. He tried to say at least one offensive thing to me before every grand adventure I went on. 

“As long as you don’t bring back a black man.” He said to my 21 year old self before I studied abroad in South Africa. GRANDPA YOU CAN’T SAY STUFF LIKE THAT. THAT’S NOT RIGHT, I CAN IF I WANT TO. I mean, I didn’t say that, but I thought it.

“Don’t go to Korea, they have no roads there and it smells.” Before I moved to South Korea to teach for one, errr, seven years. Well, while the Korea my grandpa knew during the war, and the one I discovered in the 21st century are very different, the smell is still there. I will give him that.

He was the kind of grandpa who never forgot to send you a card on your birthday no matter where you were in the world (a serious accomplishment for a granddaughter like me). He was the kind of grandpa who had a hard time admitting faults, but changed to become a better man the whole 32 years I knew him. The kind of grandpa that wanted to spend time with you, just to spend time with you.

My mom planned a special weekend trip for me to visit my grandpa, who lived one state away from Michigan, just before I move to Australia. Neither of us wanted to say aloud why we needed to make sure this weekend happened. My sister, Amber, and her two girls came with us. I am so grateful for that last weekend with my grandpa, though I can honestly say I can’t remember a single thing we talked about. We probably talked about my jet setting ways, and when I was going to live in the States again. We probably talked about Australia. We probably talked about his health and his golf game. It doesn’t really matter what we talked about, because we spent time together. Just to be together.

My grandpa broke his back over 10 years ago. The doctors said golf is probably what saved his life, he had a very strong back from swinging those clubs every day. He always tried to get us grandkids into golf when we were younger. My older two brothers played the game and I loved grandpa so much, I took golf lessons two summers in a row when I was 13 and 14. And I was really, really bad. After three holes I would be sooo tired. I never managed to make it to 9 holes, let alone 18.

But I am glad that even though I never got to play golf with him, my grandpa never left the golf course… and is probably up there perfecting his swing in Heaven.

Swing away Grandpa, swing away.

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She’s 32 and Single. There Must Be Something Wrong With Her.

I recently saw a video on social media where a man stated, “My father has a rule. And I am not saying that this rule is accurate. But just look at your life and apply it, and see if it is accurate, gentlemen. My father told me that if a woman is over 32, has never been married, never had any kids, there is something wrong with her.” The room went into an uproar at his words. “I am not saying it’s right and I am not saying it’s incorrect… every time I have applied this rule, it has been accurate.”

If you are a single woman, in your early 30s, and love the Lord— like me— then you have probably heard, at least once, that when you are happy being single and need no one else but Jesus in your life, that’s when the man of your dreams will show up. Just when you weren’t looking for him.

I don’t think my girlfriends, because yes I have heard this multiple times, meant to imply that for the past 13 years (since my last serious boyfriend) I haven’t been happy. They were sharing their story. For them, this was their reality. For them, this was their truth. But just because it is true for one single lady who meets a man when she is least expecting it just after she is at peace with being single, doesn’t mean it will happen for everyone. Can I be real? I wish people would stop perpetuating the lie that there is something wrong with being single in your thirties. Especially, in the church. Because when you hear a lie often enough, you start to believe it.

The video went on with a reply from an older woman. She took the microphone with authority, looked directly at the man and said, “Tell your daddy (loud cheers from the crowd) that if you find a woman that is 32 years old, doesn’t have any kids, never been married… Tell your daddy, that she’s educated and that she is planning to make financial decisions so that she can afford the children that she has and send them to college. Instead of having them standing at the bus stop, she can drive a Lexus to work. Tell your daddy, that the woman is a boss.”

I smiled after I saw watched this video. And then I watched it again. I think it gave me a longer pause, made me stop and reflect, because I am 32 years old. I thought about my life and immediately began composing a paragraph in my head of what I would write in response to this video if I was the commenting type. It went something like this:

I am debt free. No student loans. No credit card debt. I have my masters in Education. I’ve taught children all over the world on two different continents outside my homeland. I have lived in four different countries. I’ve traveled to 25 countries. I have built friendships with people across the world and kept those friendships going strong even after years of living in different places. I have learned how to ask for forgiveness and help and how to share my faith again and again and again. But oh… right. There must be something wrong with me because I am not married.

I’ve been thinking about this even more lately because a friend of mine recently moved to a different country and is feeling lonely. She shared with me that when she feels lonely she usually thinks that if she just had a boyfriend she would be happier. She wouldn’t be lonely. She quickly stops these thoughts because she knows it’s not true. And she has people in her life to tell her that those thoughts are not true.

Don’t get me wrong, there have been many, many times over the years when I have wanted nothing more than the man of my dreams to just walk through the freaking door already. I have felt that same loneliness and thought that the only solution is a husband. I desire to get married. I do. I have come to the point though, where I am so satisfied with where God has placed me that when I feel lonely I don’t immediately think, “If only I had a man.” I think, what can I do to enjoy this life I have been given? Who can I spend time with? Who can I encourage and who can I ask for encouragement from?

Please, don’t hear what I am not saying and get it all twisted. There are times when I am more actively pursuing a relationship and there are times when I am too busy to care. I am open to a relationship. I just don’t need one to be fulfilled. I want one. I just don’t want it to make me happy. Because I already am happy.

As a single, Christian woman in my early thirties, I am not an anomaly. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with me.

I know because my daddy says…

It Only Takes One: The Girl Who is Still Changing Me

There is a little girl in my class this year who has changed my world. She visits the hospital every month, or more, depending on her lungs. Before she comes to school she has to do physiotherapy and when she gets home she has to do it again. She takes salt tablets and creon pills (her enzymes don’t work like ours do) before eating. Every time she eats. She needs to wear face masks frequently to protect herself from germs. A common cold to a healthy young child is a sickness that could hospitalize her for months. Or worse…

Every day she comes to school in pain. Every day.

Are you picturing a sad little girl in your mind? I think I would. But let me tell you, this small, redheaded, beautiful child, is anything but sad. She makes having Cystic Fibrosis seem like so much fun that half of her classmates want to have it too. I wish those students could see the times when the nurse visits during school to change her PICC line and painful cries fill the classroom while the rest of her friends are outside playing. Yet, she worries more about the boy who is gluten intolerant in our class than she does about herself.

Yes, there are times she arrives at my classroom door crying because her stomach or head hurts even more than usual, or her body aches. But within minutes of those tougher than usual days she is smiling, laughing and telling me about something her little brother did that morning. She recently spent five days in the hospital and showed up Monday morning with her physio bag and the biggest smile on her face, so excited to tell me about her time in the hospital. Even though the week before I received a picture from her mum of her after surgery, looking like she had been hit by a bus. She wanted to tell me about her hospital room and how she woke up in the morning super confused because she thought it looked so much like her own bedroom. Never once did she mention how much it hurt. 

Her smile brings me and her classmates so much joy. She is a rockstar on the monkey bars. She is a gifted artist. Even as I write these words, tears are in my eyes when I think about her. I was terrified at the beginning of the year when this precious child was placed in my care, in my class. I am still scared. But I am also grateful.

Grateful that a five year old has taught me so much about joy, love, and how to live.

Has anyone changed your view point lately?

“Didn’t you notice it was a manual when you got in?”

My stomach dropped as I climbed inside the rental car and saw the gear shift stick between me and my passenger (friend!), Alicia. By looking for the cheapest rental car possible, dang you frugality, I had accidentally booked a manual car instead of an automatic. My mind flashed back to me at 21 years old convincing four girlfriends that I could drive the South African terrain into Swaziland in a manual car, conveniently forgetting to mention to them that I had only learned how to drive manual the summer before on country back roads. I like to think I handled that road trip well, but I also think I was more fearless at 21.  It’s been over a decade since then and I had driven manual plenty of other times, but I not on the “other side of the road” since that African road trip.

Bringing myself back to the present I took a breath and stepped out of the car, practically sprinting back into the car rental office. “I am fully capable of driving a manual car,” I smiled at the receptionist. “I was just not mentally prepared for it. Do you have any automatic cars available for hire?” Her no wasn’t sorrowful at all, more annoyed. I smiled again and went back outside.

“I can drive a stick shift, Alicia.”  I said aloud, more for my benefit that hers. Her response was immediate, “I believe you! I can’t help at all as I don’t have a clue how to drive manual”. She was super supportive, even when my mind went blank and I forgot to push down the clutch when attempting to start the car. Haha, oops.

Driving manual is like riding a bike, really. It all came back as I started driving around Hobart, even while using my left hand and driving on the left hand side of the road. As soon as I began to pick up speed, however, the car refused to accelerate. I had the pedal to the metal as they say, and it started going slower instead of faster. What? My first thought was that I was doing something wrong. We had just entered onto the highway after I had barely made it over a hill when I pulled over onto the shoulder. I took a deep breath, once again telling Alicia that I knew how to drive a manual. I am a safe driver, I am! After I gave myself a pep talk I tried again. This time we were halfway up a hill when I had to pull over again, the stupid car just wasn’t shifting gears and accelerating the way it was supposed to. Whyyyyyy? I looked in my rearview mirror at the abandoned car behind me, also on the shoulder of the road. I tried again and again to get the car started and moving forward and every time I tried we rolled backwards. Cars, trucks, monster trucks, bigger than monster trucks were flying past us around the curves on the highway. Some honking, all speeding.

Swallowing my pride and after many nudges from Alicia, I finally agreed to call the car rental company. I had a short, curt, and demeaning conversation with a receptionist, let’s call her Kasey, who at one point said, “Didn’t you notice it was a manual when you got in?” Kasey was convinced I had it in reverse, I wasn’t, but my second guessing nature and natural inclination towards I must be the one doing something wrong, had me agreeing with her. Telling me that the worst thing I could do was to panic, Kasey instructed me to try and try again. I actually wasn’t panicked, I was irritated. Alicia was extremely calm this whole time, both of us keeping our nervous energy on the inside (aside from my terrible shaky leg on the clutch).

I ended up rolling backwards into the left lane of the highway around the abandoned car (still rolling backwards mind you) and back onto the shoulder in order to avoid smashing into it. To say we got a few more honks would be pretty accurate. Finally, Alicia succeeded in convincing me to call roadside service with a simple statement, “It’s not safe.” I agreed, this was ridiculous, and absolutely not safe. How in the world was I able to drive a manual for the first 15 minutes of this journey (not to mention the last 12 years) and then forget? How does that work? I was frustrated and grateful, at least we were still safe.

When the police officer pulled over on his motorcycle I can fully guarantee that I had never been more grateful of a cop stopping behind my vehicle in my entire life. I beamed at him, relieved as I rolled down my car window. After explaining the situation to Steve, (real name because he is AWESOME) he began coaching me through what to do, even though, I promise I knew what to do! Steve changed his mind halfway through his instructions and asked me to get out of the car.

Less than 1 minute of sitting in the rental Steve shook his head, got out of the car and said, “The clutch is gone, this car is broken.” VINDICATION. And relief. Also, I am not a mechanic and I know next to zilch about cars so for all of you reading this who already guessed that the clutch was gone, good job. I am happy for you. I called the rental place back and wouldn’t you know, Kasey completely changed her tune when I explained what transpired since our last little chat. She promised to get a tow truck to us immediately and then hoped we would ‘stay warm’ in the chill Tasmania winter. Jee, thanks.

Steve stayed with Alicia and I the whole time, stating he couldn’t leave “damsels in distress” and called for another cop car to come and block the lane further down as cars continued to speed around the curves. He gave thumbs up to the cars being safe and opened his arms wide to the more reckless drivers. Seriously, I love Steve.


Almost 30 minutes later two men in a pick up truck showed up to tow the car… interesting. “I can smell that!” One of them said towards Steven as he neared the car. Neither men said a word in our direction as Steve ushered us to the back of their truck, what a good person he is. Steve pointed out the oil leaking from the car and I heard one of them tell the other, “Probably needs a whole new gearbox.” We sat in the truck as the car was hooked up. Silence. One man sat in the broken car to steer it behind us while the other merged the truck on the highway. Silence. “So are you Jason, or is the other one Jason?” I asked referring to the name Kasey had given of who was picking us up. “We both are.” Then. Silence.

By the time we got back to the car rental’s office I was fuming. What kind of car rental loans a broken car. In all fairness, I know that you can’t predict when a clutch will go, but surely some kind of safety tests are in place before cars are hired out so you can try not to hand over a worthless car. We stood for a good 10 minutes in the office waiting for Kasey to come and speak with us. She finally emerged and without preamble started explaining how she had given us an upgrade and an automatic car was ready for us.

I gave her a hard look. “I am sorry, I don’t know if I am ready to get back into one of your cars.” Kasey looked a little taken aback and said, “We give our cars safety checks before they go out, there is no way to predict when a clutch goes. People rent out manuals without knowing how to drive them. The last person who rented the car must have driven it to the ground. We are not blaming you.”

“Of course not, it’s not my fault,” I mentioned a few other things about how we lost half the day already, etc. “No one even asked us if we are okay,” I shook my head not believing how this huge safety hazard didn’t even make a blimp on this car rental’s radar.  Kasey paused and looked at us. “That’s just the boys. Are you okay?” She asked quickly. Not exactly flippantly, but not with any deep conviction either.

I held back my anger as I realized I actually appreciated her no-nonsense attitude and really wanted to head out to the Tahune Airwalk. It didn’t hit me later as I was driving the automatic out on the open road that just a few hours before, they said they didn’t have an automatic car. Hmmmm…

In the midst of the silent guys coming to get the car I didn’t get to properly say goodbye to my hero of the day, Steve. Thanks for everything, Steve!

We made it to the Tahune Airwalk.


Lemonade- Not the Beyoncé Kind

Hi Family! Hi Friends! Hi Strangers!

It’s been a minute, I know. But I am stretching my fingers and cracking my knuckles (yup, literally just did that) and itching to get back on this keyboard.

Living in Melbourne, Australia for the past eleven months has been a whirlwind of adventure, excitement, disappointments, incredible favour— speaking of which I don’t know how the world of Commonwealth countries are able to tolerate American spelling, it just looks wrong to me now, and I am American! How does 31 years of American spelling look wrong after only 11 months? Okay, so there are some things that America got very, very right, I still can’t do Celsius and I love measuring things by inches, pounds, and miles, I do, though I know there is a huge controversial debate on the States going fully metric—errr.. Back to my time in Australia being a whirlwind, I think the biggest shock for me is that I am still getting shocked… culturally. See what I did there?

A couple of weeks ago I went to the movies with two people who have become kind of like my Australian siblings. When I first met my friend and coworker, Alicia’s, little brother, Michael, I creepily whispered, “Be my brother.” and then forgot about it. Apparently, Alicia’s mum (I still prefer mom!) heard it and thought it was funny, which I was obviously trying to be, and told Michael later… he thought about it and said, “Yeah, I’d be her brother.” Ba-da bing ba-da boom, I got myself a little brother.

Back to the movies. We were eating burgers beforehand. Alicia ordered herself a classic burger and a Sprite, and she got a burger and a sprite. I ordered myself a classic burger and a lemonade, and got a burger and a Sprite. What the heck? Tell me this, does coke have another name other than coca-cola? I think not. But in Australia, Sprite is also called lemonade and lemonade is whatever brand of the lemonade it is (Lift, Solo, blablabla). I was super confused when I got my Sprite and stuttered on about lemonade. Meanwhile, Alicia is holding her Sprite and I am holding my Sprite and wanting the Lift lemonade I see clearly behind the glass cooler and the confused cashier is saying, “I can change it for you” but not moving to do so and because I am so flustered I just say, “It’s fine” and walk away. Why did I do that? I really wanted lemonade! I mean Lift! I mean, whatever!

You may think, what a silly thing to have culture shock about. But when all of those silly things add up and every day you’re feeling like you are missing the joke, or the inside knowledge on something, it can be pretty taxing.

It’s the beauty of living abroad. And though I wish the moments didn’t happen quite as often as they do, I love it when they happen just the same. Does that sound contradictory? Well, welcome to my life.

Are you a lemonade or a Sprite person? Shoot, never mind, according to Australia those are the same thing.